


Octopus

by the_ragnarok



Series: Abandoned Inception WIPs [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they turn into toys inside the dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Octopus

**Author's Note:**

> ABANDONED WIP, read at your own peril.

The architects keep getting younger and younger these days. Eames eyes the latest sample with mistrust – pimpled and sour-faced, surely no older than fifteen.

"I'm twenty," mumbles the Boy Wonder, known to his colleagues and presumable friends as Darren. 

"Did I ask?" Eames says with a mild raise of eyebrow. He turns to their extractor – no, practical therapist. 

Eames is doing his best impression of a law-abiding citizen these days, and accepts only the most legitimate of jobs. It's not a rare process in the steadily gentrifying field that is dreamsharing. Said practical therapist, Lynn, used to be a fairly fearsome extractor; now she's composing teams to diagnose kids with suspected social disorders. Sic transit gloria mundi, etc. etc. 

Lynn rolls her eyes at him, so Eames subsides. He is, after all, taking this job based on Lynn's old reputation alone.

"Oh, God," Arthur says from his seat in the corner. "I don't know if this conversation is making me feel old or just relieved." Eames can't help but grin at him. All right, perhaps he's not on the job _only_ because of Lynn.

Lynn reties her silver hair with a purple scrunchie. "Don't worry, old dog," she tells Arthur. "You'll always be a puppy to me."

"Are people always this inappropriate?" Darren says, apparently in despair. 

Arthur hums and shrugs, looking not unsympathetic."You get used to it." He gets up and goes to punch Eames in the shoulder. "Don't let Eames give you any grief."

Eames feigns a hurt look in Arthur's direction. "I would never." Arthur snorts, but he pats Eames' back before withdrawing from the room.

~~

He finds himself looking in Arthur's direction as often as not. If Eames ever had any shame about his Arthur-watching habits (and why should he? The man's a bloody work of art), it's dwindled to nothing with age and familiarity.

Arthur _still_ doesn't look his age, after all these years, but he does look adult, which is a marked change from the time when Eames first met him. It's not just the faint lines permanently settled in his forehead – all Arthur's fault, those, Eames did warn him not to scowl this much – but other things: the way he rolls up his sleeves and whistles as he works, the tone of his voice gone from sharp and curt to almost amused.

In fact, Arthur has mellowed considerably since the time Eames first met him. It's odd to realize, and Eames finds himself blinking, taking Arthur in all over again.

"What's our out?” Arthur's asking Darren, running a critical eye over the latest draft of the single-level maze.

"We're extracting from a first-grader,” Darren says. “Do you really--”

Arthur puts the specs down with a decisive turn of wrist. “Always have another way out.” He looks over his shoulder and lowers his voice, conspiratorial. “And don't call this an extraction where Lynn can hear you, or she'll have your innards for lingerie.”

Faintly, Darren says, "I'll remember that.”

"Make sure you do.” Arthur smiles at him, and it's...

Not brief and impersonal as Eames remembers from their early days, not the knife's-edge teeth baring that Arthur used to save for troublesome clients. Arthur looks amused. Holy hell, Arthur looks downright _approachable_ , which is so unbearably adorable Eames might just faint.

When Arthur walks back to his workstation, passing Eames along the way, Eames flutters his eyelashes and sighs audibly. Arthur throws an eraser at him. Eames ducks, grinning; ten years ago, that would've been a knife.

~~

It's not a very tightly-structured job, which Eames is absolutely fine with. He thrives on improvisation, after all, provided his foundations are solid. “And in such esteemed company,” he says, saluting Arthur with his takeout container, “what could be more solid?”

Arthur tilts his head and pretends to think. “Adamantium,” he says. Eames raises his eyebrow and is about to raise the stakes as well when Darren raps the desk with a ruler. 

"Hey.” He manages to sound only a _little_ petulant, good on him. “So, uh, plan?”

"The indicators we're looking for are in the file,” Lynn says. “The somnacin blend we're using is going to make us all look like we're Kriss' age, except Eames, who is going to be Kriss' favorite toy. Get us the inside information.” She nudges Eames. “Basically, just observe the kid and the dreamscape, fill out the forms the doctor gives us, and report anything unusual.”

"Yeah, that's actually all in the file as well.” Darren shifts. “What I meant was, how do I know what's normal? I've never,” he darts a cautious look at Arthur, then at Lynn, “done dream-therapy on a kid.”

"Neither did any of us,” Eames says, taking sufficient pity to refrain from mentioning that Darren hasn't extracted from anyone at all. “Play it by ear. If you're not certain, ask. Common sense should do it.”

~~

"Um,” Darren says into the silence that descends once they're all in Kriss' dream. “So, is this... supposed to happen?”

Eames investigates the purple tentacle he's got in place of a hand. “In my case, yes.” The stretchy octopus is, after all, Kriss' favorite toy. “In yours, however...”

If Eames is honest, he'll admit he was quite looking forward to seeing his team mates as children. Not to name any names in particular, he had a notion at least one of them would be completely adorable. 

Sadly, this does not appear to be happening. Darren, for one thing, looks quite like himself, if he were a LEGO-person. Painted-on hair and yellowness aside, there's not much of a difference.

"This might not be so bad,” Lynn says, frowning down at her dress. She's taken on the aspect of a Raggedy Ann. “We're suppose to come in looking like desirable play mates. The kid might just be a little introverted.”

"Or a sociopath,” Eames says cheerfully. “What?” he says, when Darren glares so hotly it ought to melt his plastic face. “I've extracted from several sociopaths, it's very enlightening. Change of pace and all that.”

_Also painful._

Eames blinks, because that wasn't a thought and he didn't quite _hear_ it, either – the words just up and registered themselves into his memory. Sounding remarkably like Arthur, especially for something that wasn't sound at all to begin with.

Come to think of it, where _is_ Arthur?

Something which isn't quite a sigh, but nevertheless expresses a palpable irritation in the air, communicates, _Down here_.

Eames looks. And blinks, and looks again. 

The ground of the dreamscape, such as it is, is more like an assortment of soft fabric, as if the entire world is a pillow-fort or a giant stuffed toy.

 _What_ , emanates clearly from a largish square of very light sky-blue fleece.

"Sorry,” Eames murmurs. One of his tentacles ventures close to the corner of the – of Arthur, but goes no further when Arthur twitches. “Took me a minute to spot you, you're rather well-camouflaged.”

Lynn walks to them. Her painted-on eyes can't narrow, but it seems like she wishes they could. “Why is Arthur a blanket?”

Eames hurriedly swallows down a pun, only to groan when Darren says, “Dunno, 'cause he's in charge of security?”

 _Hah hah_ , Arthur projects, very sour for something so soft-looking.

Lynn frowns to the best of her doll-faced ability. “Can you move?”

Eames watches in fascination as the Arthur-blanket folds itself slightly in the middle, only to collapse in resignation like a badly designed caterpillar.

 _Doesn't look like it,_ Arthur says.

"I guess I could,” Darren starts, then mysteriously stumbles in mid-sentence.

"Oh, sorry, that was careless of me, still not used to all these extra arms,” Eames says, scooping Arthur up. “Rather stable on this terrain, though, aren't they? No offense.”

Slung on two of Eames' tentacles, Arthur projects, _Not subtle_.

Eames doesn't dignify this with an answer. Arthur knows perfectly well that Eames is never unsubtle unless he wants to be.

~~

The dreamscape has no real sky, just a warm darkness above illuminated with glow-in-the-dark star stickers. The pillow-ground is soft and springy to walk on. The octopus shape is interesting to inhabit, the extra arms not completely intuitive to manage but not as hard as Eames might've feared. All in all, Eames has been in much drearier situations.

It's a little troubling that they haven't come across the mark yet, but Eames is patient and in high spirits. If his rubberish mouth lent itself to such acts, Eames might have whistled. 

From on ahead, Lynn yells, "Are you coming?” 

"Slowly but surely!” Eames calls, and tries to hasten as much as he can without dislodging Arthur.

Who is awfully quiet, come to think of it. “Darling?” Eames says, because Arthur ignores him sometimes but pet names always get _some_ sort of reaction.

Now there is none whatsoever, except for a minute change to the background noise which, after a moment, Eames manages to parse as akin to a light snore.

Well. Eames draws the arms holding Arthur closer, keeping him in place and curling over him, lest he slip from Eames' grip. It's not like Arthur to fall asleep mid-job, not at all, but perhaps this is normal blanket behavior and Arthur's only inhabiting his shape. Thus Eames letting him sleep is all about respect for Arthur's current form and has nothing to do with a careful tally of how often Arthur's (not) been sleeping lately.

~~

Careful as he is, Eames ends up losing sight of Lynn and Darren. That's fine, however – he can track them perfectly well by the trail of disturbed pillowcases. Still, he's well behind and he hears the mark long before he sees him.

Just at the crest of a hill made of bedding, Eames pauses and takes a breath. Arthur stirs in his arms, laying himself in twists that feel as close to Arthur's habitual tension as a blanket can manage. _Plan?_ he conveys at Eames.

"We'll figure something out,” Eames says softly, then propels himself up the hill.

Darren's standing a safe distance away from Kriss, little plastic arms held up ineffectually against the lumps of spinach Kriss is pelting at him.

"Weirdest thing is, the dreamscape isn't acting up at all,” Lynn says, having somehow materialized behind Eames' shoulder. “Temper tantrums like this aren't uncommon for him, so we just need to stick to whatever the script is.”

Eames looks on speculatively. In his arms, Arthur tenses and says, _Oh, fuck._

"Sorry, love,” Eames says, and tosses Arthur over the boy like a curtain over a birdcage.

There is a tense, ten-second silence during which Arthur's edges drift in the breeze and Kriss' chubby hands try to grip at them. 

Kriss pulls Arthur off. Eames prepares to come into the fray when Kriss murmurs, “Blankie,” curls himself around Arthur and sucks on a thumb, eyes gently drawing closed.

~~

After that, it's mostly straightforward. 

Well, mostly.

 _I'm going to be sick,_ Arthur broadcasts, slung across Kriss' shoulders while Kriss zooms about pretending to be Superman.

"Try not to,” Lynn says, while Darren adds, “How? You don't even have a mouth.”

 _I hate everything,_ Arthur says faintly when Kriss finally lays him down to go see if he can take Darren apart.

"Untrue. I know you love your job, which you are doing eminently well,” Eames says. “And – may I?” He holds one arm just above Arthur's middle.

 _Might as well,_ Arthur says. When the tip of Eames' tentacle strokes him, gently, Arthur sighs and the fabric of him crawls up to lightly cling, reciprocating Eames' touch. _And – what?_

Eames knows it's tempting fate, the original end to his sentence, so he shelves it aside. “There must be upsides to being a blankie, aren't there? It looks wonderfully calming.”

 _I'm sorry, are we in the same dream?_ Arthur twitches irritably. Eames watches the wrinkles in his surface, fascinated. _Because all I've noticed are gross indignities and nearly being vomited on._

"Oh, don't worry about that,” Eames says. “I'm sure you're machine-washable.” 

Alas, he never gets to hear Arthur's response to that, as Kriss comes at that moment to pull at Eames' tentacle. Eames thanks the dreamscape for his current elasticity and hurriedly ambles along after Kriss.

~~

"Jesus freakin' Christ,” Darren complains, attempting to slate his arm back into place. “Can we just go out now and tell them the kid's a psycho?”

"Don't tell me you haven't done worse to your toys,” Lynn says. “C'mon, stop whining and go distract him some more.”

Off Darren goes, grumbling. Eames waits until he's out of hearing range to say, “You do recall that distracting the kid is nominally my job.”

Lynn snorts. It's a very odd sound coming from a doll. “Yeah, whatever. I want your input, Eames. Arthur's too, if Darren can disentangle him from Kriss.”

Eames straightens slightly – the octopus arms really are exceedingly comfortable once one gets used to them, Eames will miss them when they wake – to observe Kriss and Darren at play. Arthur, for the moment, lies forgotten on the floor.

"I shan't be minute,” Eames says. 

Really, when one is used to making daring chases in high heels (only in dreams, of course – well, mostly in dreams), there's nothing to creeping quickly, retrieving Arthur and positing him on the ground beside Lynn.

(Eames is somewhat loathe to let go, truth be told; as he is now, Arthur's not only soft and warm, there's a quality to holding him that's calming and downright addictive. Which is handy when it comes to handling the sprog, but less than ideal when discussing business.)

"Glad to have you with us,” Lynn tells Arthur. Looking back at Eames, she says, “First thing about this dream that popped out to you: go.”

"Obviously our shapes didn't come on as expected,” Eames says, rubbing his chin – or the area under his mouth, rather – with the tip of one tentacle. 

"Yeah, that ties into it as well,” Lynn says, mouth tightening. Eames borrows slightly into the soft ground, trying to come up with the answer Lynn wants.

But it's Arthur who says, “Where are the projections?” 

Lynn smiles grimly, which is somewhat unsettling. “Bingo. Have either of you extracted from kids this age before?”

Eames and Arthur trade a look – well, Eames looks at Arthur, who noticeably directs his attention at Eames despite having no eyes to look with. “Not this young, no,” Eames says. Arthur's silence is sufficiently eloquent.

"See, there's the thing.” Lynn paces. “It's possible that he's just a late bloomer, or an introvert, or something perfectly harmless. But I'm in this kid dream and I see no acknowledgment of other people as separate beings. When we tried to force other people to exist in his brain – namely, us –“

"He turned us into toys,” Eames says softly. Namely, extensions of Kriss' self.

"Exactly. But that's not the kind of reply I want to come back with unless I'm absolutely positive.” Lynn looks quite grim for something made of brightly-colored cloth. “I need to make some observations. Will you two be okay watching him for now?”

 _We **three ******_, Arthur indicates. His corners flaps ever so slightly in Darren's direction.

Lynn grimaces. “Yeah, keep an eye on him, too.” She walks away.

~~

Eight legs (arms – whichever) really are surprisingly steady. Eames... squats, for lack of a better word, supported comfortably. “It's really very restful,” he tells Arthur. “I wonder if the whole bipedal thing wasn't a mistake to begin with.”

Arthur doesn't answer. Eames can't be certain, but he thinks Arthur's keeping his attention on Darren, still attempting to entertain Kriss.

"Does he seem like he needs help?” Eames inquires.

Arthur's corner flops dismissively. _He's fine._ A small crease appears in Arthur's middle, like he's trying to turn to Eames but can't muster the control. _You should give him more credit. Looking young doesn't mean he's incompetent._

Eames is about to say, _You certainly weren't,_ but he thinks better of it and keeps the sentiment to himself.

Certainly Arthur was never anything less than adept. Even in the very beginning Eames loved to watch him work, his precision, the fine blade's-edge sharpness of his every motion, both literally and figuratively. 

That edge, that keenness was worn by age, to an extent. But it's replaced now by the fluidity of those truly comfortable in their skin. In Eames' opinion, little though Arthur may care for it, it's absolutely an improvement.

 _How long do you think Lynn will need?_ Arthur asks. _It's starting to turn dark._

So it is. Eames is somewhat startled to realize it. To his understanding, the planned dreamworld wasn't meant to _have_ night time.

It's also turning cold, which really wasn't in the bloody plan. Eames hies himself to where Darren is trying to unstick his foot from a gooey blob. (Eames would wonder where _that_ came from, but they are inside a six-year-old's mind.)

"No, this _wasn't_ supposed to happen,” Darren says before Eames can utter a word. "But hey, why ask me? I'm just the fucking Lego man."

Eames grits his (entirely metaphorical at the moment) teeth. "Well spotted. What do you suggest we do?"

Darren shrugs. "Search me. You're the responsible adult now, aren't you?" He sighs. "Look, sorry, but I don't even actually _like_ kids and I'm the fucking architect, not the extractor. I just built this shit, I don't know what makes it go. I wasn't even supposed to be down here with you."

Eames refrains from mentioning that joining in was Darren's idea to begin with. "We'd best stick together," he says instead. "No telling what might go bump in the night."

"Probably." Darren raises his eyes. A small distance away, Kriss is burrowing under the blanket-ground. "We should probably emulate the kid."

Eames nods. "You find somewhere comfortable. I'll stand watch."


End file.
